


a hymn called faith and misery

by glorious_spoon



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Concussions, De-Serumed Steve Rogers, Escape, HYDRA Trash Party, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Restraints, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:15:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21781153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glorious_spoon/pseuds/glorious_spoon
Summary: Scott wakes up chained to a wall in an underground cell, and it only goes downhill from there.
Relationships: Scott Lang & Steve Rogers, Scott Lang/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 33
Collections: Hydra Holiday Trash Party Gift Exchange 2019





	a hymn called faith and misery

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TiaNaut](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiaNaut/gifts).

> For the Hydra Trash Party Holiday Exchange for TiaNaut, who requested Scott Lang and deserumed Steve Rogers. 
> 
> With many thanks to Caterina for looking it over!

According to the battered clock hung high on the concrete wall opposite him, Scott has been awake for just under three and a half hours when a door in the hallway outside clangs open and then shut with a pair of metallic crashes. Footsteps clack on the floor, and there’s a slithering sound like something is being dragged. He yanks hard at his chains, but it does no damn good, no more than it has for the last three hours and twenty three minutes. He’s never wanted Pym’s suit more in his life.

Voices outside the door. He can’t make out the words from here but the tone is calm and jovial, and some part of him that had leapt in hope when the door opened withers and dies all at once. He didn’t realize until just this moment how much he was hoping for some kind of grand rescue à la _Captain America Versus: The Red Skull!_

...Which, okay, in his defense, he also has that memory of Steve Rogers—Captain America himself—emerging out of the darkness of the Raft to save all their asses, so. Sue him. He’s an optimist.

This isn’t a rescue, though. The door to the cell opens and a pair of guards enter, dragging a scrawny, naked, bloody body between them. A kid, he thinks with a sickened twist in the pit of his stomach as they toss the body on the floor a few feet from where Scott is chained up. There’s a low groan, and the guy curls in on himself like he’s protecting his belly from a blow.

That’s prescient, as it turns out, because one of the guards kicks him hard the moment he hits the floor. He makes an awful, gasping grunt, then wheezes, “Is that all you got?”

The guard aims another kick at him, and the guy starts laughing, ugly and dry, but Scott is barely listening because that voice—

It’s not just that it’s deeper than he’d have expected from that skinny body, a man’s voice and not a kid’s at all, it’s that he recognizes it. From old newsreels, from CNN broadcasts on Capitol Hill and press meet-and-greets, from that parking garage in Romania where he reached out, almost hyperventilating, to shake Captain America’s hand.

_Captain America_. If he had any lingering doubt, it’s put to rest when one of the guards grabs a fistful of the guy’s hair and hauls him up until he’s half-kneeling on the filthy concrete floor. The face is narrower, fine-boned and sharp in a way that lends it the illusion of adolescence, but it is unmistakably Steve Rogers.

The shock of that is enough to jolt Scott out of his frozen immobility. He yanks uselessly at the cuffs and his voice cracks horribly when he yells, “Hey! Let go of him, assholes, leave him alone!”

Cap cuts him a glance. Even as bloody and battered as he is, there’s a quality of hard-edged impatience to it. It’s a look that screams, _Shut up, I’ve got this handled._

Normally, being on the receiving end of that kind of look from Captain America would shut Scott up so fast he’d bite his tongue off. But then, normally, Captain America isn’t ninety-five pounds soaking wet and stark naked to boot.

“Hey,” Scott says again, louder. One of the guards finally looks up at him, or at least Scott thinks he’s looking at him; with the riot gear shielding their faces, it’s impossible to tell for sure.

It isn’t the first time he’s found himself locked up in a cell by morally dubious characters. But usually he at least has some clue who has him, and why. This time, there’s nothing. He has a vague memory of a needle sliding into his neck as he turned on the engine of his car, but that’s it. No insignia on the uniform, which covers the man from the top of his head to his shiny black boots as he steps deliberately over toward Scott.

“Look, I can guarantee that a rescue is gonna be coming sooner or later, and believe me when I say that you do _not _want to be here when that happens. I’m just saying, you might want to—”

He flinches automatically when the man lifts a hand, but the backhand he’s expecting doesn’t come. Instead, gloved fingers grasp his jaw, tilting his head from one side to the other. Scott has the queasy sense that he’s being inspected like livestock.

“Let go of me,” he says. It's less defiant and more afraid than he intends. He’s thinking of Cassie, suddenly, and how if he dies here she’s never going to see him again. How he’s just going to disappear out of her life like the deadbeat he’s tried so hard not to be.

Behind the guard, Cap struggles to his feet. He’s hunched over like there’s something wrong with his ribs—which there probably is, from the bruising darkening his torso, pulpy and purplish-black. He’s seen Captain America shake off hits that would level a charging bull, but whatever they’ve done to him has clearly reversed the effects of the serum. It’s one thing to know that Cap used to be five foot four and built like a twig with an attitude, but it’s something else entirely to see it firsthand.

“Stay down,” snaps the guard not holding onto Scott, and slams the butt of his rifle into Cap’s midsection. He folds around it, gasping. The guard takes a step closer and one of Cap’s hands shoots out faster than Scott can follow, striking him hard between the legs.

The guard crumples with a yell, and the one holding onto Scott lets go of him and spins back toward Cap, who is already ducking down, covering his head with his arms as he kicks out at them. He gets in maybe one good hit before going down in a flurry of blows. For several horrible moments Scott is completely sure they’re going to beat him to death right there. He’s yelling, barely even aware of what he’s saying, only that the words feel jagged and frantic in the back of his throat by the time they finally, finally let up.

Cap is still curled on the ground, breathing raggedly but _breathing_, at least. The two guards haul him up, hefting his skinny body effortlessly to slam him up against the wall opposite Scott and cuff him there. The heavy metal cuffs look almost obscene around his skinny wrists.

Scott’s afraid they might start hitting him again now that he’s immobilized, but they don’t. They just file out without another word, letting the steel door fall shut behind them with an echoing _clang_.

For several awful moments the silence is only broken by Cap’s ragged breathing. The chains on him are longer than the ones pinning Scott’s arms above his head, but still not long enough to let him actually sit down. He’s hanging in an awkward crouch, the tendons in his arms drawn tight and his hair falling into his face.

“What the hell did they do to you?” Scott asks. The answer to that is fairly obvious, in broad strokes if not the specifics, but he really needs something to focus on right now other than how comprehensively fucked they are.

He’s not even sure that Cap is conscious, but after a moment his head lifts. He shakes it slightly, then winces and struggles to his feet. Blood pours from his nose and mouth, lending a ghoulish appearance to his half-familiar face. When he grimaces his teeth are red, like he’s been eating cherries. “Hell if I know. Some kind of—” he breaks off with a wince. “Some kind of dart. Knocked me out, woke up like this.”

“Is it permanent?”

“Hope not,” Cap says. There’s a forced lightness to his tone. “Asthma’s not fun, let me tell you.”

“Yeah,” Scott says. “Yeah, okay.” And then, “Shit, I’m so sorry.”

“What for?”

“You wouldn’t be in—this—if it weren’t for me, right? I was bait.” He tries to gesture before he remembers that he’s still chained to the wall. Metal clanks, and he shivers. Unlike Cap, he’s not stark naked, but he’s barefoot and shirtless and it is _not_ warm in here. “So. I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault. We don’t leave our people behind. Besides—” Cap breaks off as more footsteps echo down the hallway. There’s a lengthy pause, and then the door opens again.

The man who steps inside this time isn’t masked. He’s wearing a suit and tie, shoes shined to a mirror finish, neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper hair. He looks like a politician, so wholesomely all-American that he could have been stamped from a mold. His eyes are as cold and hard as a pair of stones.

“Captain Rogers. Mr. Lang.” His voice is cold, too; as unaccented as a radio broadcaster’s. “How are you enjoying your accommodations?”

“You’re fucking kidding me, right?” Scott’s mouth says, without his permission. On the far wall, Cap makes a hacking noise that might actually be a laugh. It shakes his entire skinny frame. Scott can feel a half-hysterical bubble of laughter rising up in response, but it dies in his throat when the man steps closer to him. If the guard seemed to be inspecting him like livestock, this is even worse. The man’s expression is halfway between assessing and avaricious. Scott swallows. He’s faced down some scary shit in his time, but something about that look makes him feel smaller than Pym’s suit ever did, fragile and exposed. He’s suddenly very aware of the fact that he’s shirtless and barefoot. His skin is prickling and his voice comes out thinner than he wants it to when he says, “What do you want with us?”

“Hmm,” the man says, and rests his palm against Scott’s cheek, pats it gently. His skin is dry and cold, like a lizard’s. “Well, Mr. Lang, I’m sorry that you had to become involved in this. I truly am. We just needed something to lure Captain America to us. Although I admit, I was hoping for another enhanced individual to experiment with. You have no special talents outside of that fascinating suit, am I right?”

Scott swallows twice before he can get his voice to work. “Well, I’m told I make a mean grilled cheese sandwich.”

He’s half-hoping that it might make Cap laugh again, but Cap is weirdly silent. His head is up, and the expression on his face is tense.

“Leave him alone,” he says, suddenly, sharply. “You got me already. He’s not a part of this.”

“True enough,” the man says easily. “However, in your current state, any more damage might actually kill you. And that would be counterproductive, don’t you think? Besides, I think it would be useful to give you some incentive to be more cooperative than you have been up to this point. If you behave, I'll only have to make my point once.”

“Don’t, you don’t have to.” Cap’s skinny body surges forward, rattling the chains. He makes a pained sound, lips pulled back in a grimace. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Wait,” Scott says. This conversation is heading in a direction he really doesn't like, and the tone in Cap’s voice is unnerving. He sounds afraid. Scott didn’t even realize that Captain America _could_ sound afraid. “What are you—”

Before he can finish, though, the man nods to the guards and they’re both moving forward, gripping his aching shoulders to spin him around toward the wall hard enough that his face connects with the concrete. The inside of his cheek tears against the edges of his teeth. He tastes blood in his mouth, spits. Behind him Cap yells, “Don’t _fucking_ do this,” and Scott thinks, _huh, I’ve never heard him swear before_.

There are hands on his belt. Fingers fumble with the buckle before getting it open and yanking the zipper of his jeans down, and even after everything there's a handful of seconds where Scott doesn’t actually get what’s happening.

Then he does. The man behind him shoves at his jeans and boxers until they’re tangled up around his ankles, hobbling him when he tries belatedly to kick out. Cold air hits his skin like a slap.

“Fighting won’t help,” the man says in his ear. He still sounds calm, but there's a heaviness to his breath now, an eager tension in him as he crowds up close. Scott shakes his head against the cold concrete, gets a foot free and kicks out again, and a hand tangles in his hair and slams his skull against the wall with punishing force.

He might actually black out for a second. The next thing he’s aware of is pain hammering through his temples and yelling that sounds distant and garbled. Fast panting breaths on the back of his neck, a body pushed up against him, bare and way too fucking close.

“Fuck you,” Scott mumbles. His tongue feels thick in his mouth. He should be panicked, but even that feels distant. The hot drag of the man’s cock against the small of his back seems briefly more ridiculous than threatening. He’s sandwiched between the guy and the concrete wall, and his bare chest and belly and crotch are chilled and chafed.

A laugh against his ear, low and horrible. “Other way around.”

“Fuck _you_. Get off me.” He wants—defiance, wit, something other than that mumbled protest, but nothing comes. The man pulls back enough to spit unceremoniously, slicking himself up. It’s not enough, Scott thinks, half disbelieving, some tiny hysterical part of him insisting that this isn’t actually happening, it's not going to be enough, this is going to do him real damage if he can't—and then the blunt cock head breaches him with a sudden rough push.

It _hurts_. He’s done this before—not _this_, Jesus Christ, not even prison was like this, but—

There was a sloe-eyed guy he met in a bar once, back in college. There was Hope, who had a strap-on harness and a sparkly purple dildo that was simultaneously the hottest and most ridiculous thing he’d ever seen, he’s—

With a grunt, the man drives his cock all the way in. Scott twists again without even meaning to, shrinking instinctively away from the pain of being speared like this, but there’s nowhere for him to go. His arms are chained high enough that he couldn’t get any leverage even if he wasn’t pinned against the wall, and there’s a dizzy wrongness to the world that definitely means he has a concussion.

“Stop—” He twists again, and a hard thrust shoves him against the rough concrete. Tears are starting to gather at the corners of his eyes, and somehow that’s the most humiliating part of this. He bites down on his tongue before he can say _please stop_ and tastes blood.

It doesn’t stop. Hands grip his hips brutally tight, and somewhere else in the room he can hear jeering, laughter, Cap’s voice yelling something. It’s all garbled together and incomprehensible over the sound of his own breath rattling in his lungs and it doesn’t stop, it doesn’t _stop_. If there’s any mercy in this at all, it’s that he’s in too much pain to get hard even when the guy gropes roughly at his crotch.

“Fucking let go of me,” Scott mumbles, and the guy squeezes and yanks so viciously that Scott thinks, dazedly horrified, _Jesus Christ he’s going to rip my dick right off._

Then the grip releases and he almost sobs in relief even through the spreading, throbbing ache. The guy picks up the pace, fucking into him with fast brutal thrusts that feel like being scraped raw from the inside. Each one jostles his battered skull and makes him feel like his brain is about to slosh right out. Dark spots are starting to crowd his vision, the world spinning out around him like a tape on a loose reel, sounds overlapping, becoming distant.

“Bitch,” the guy grunts in his ear, and he doesn’t sound like a newscaster or a politician now, he just sounds like any fuck-drunk guy about to come, “yeah, that’s it, fucking take it, bitch,” and his cock starts to pulse, a sickening rush of heat. Scott kicks out again without even meaning to, and a hand grips his hair and knocks his face against the wall again.

The world spools away into darkness.

* * *

He wakes up to agony blooming out from his skull to his shoulders where the muscle and sinew are pulled tight against his own dead weight. Cold slickness down his thighs and a disgusting raw wet feeling inside him when he moves. He tries to get his feet beneath him, fails. A pathetic noise escapes his throat as he sways dizzily from the shackles. The taste of blood still lingers on his tongue.

A cold hand settles carefully on his shoulder, then hooks under his arm. Scott kicks out instinctively, the sudden movement sending another jolt of pain through him, and the grip tightens.

“Stop it,” says whoever’s touching him. “We have to get out of here.”

Scott blinks. His thoughts feel thick and slow, like he’s drunk. “Wha…?”

“Lang. _Scott._ We need to get out of here before they get back.”

Scott blinks again and finally manages to drag the face in front of him into some kind of focus. Blond hair and worried blue eyes surrounded by bruising, and—

Cap. That’s Cap. He looks horribly, horribly young in a way that has fuck-all to do with his newly scrawny frame. Scott’s never really thought about him that way: he’s _Captain America_. Scott grew up reading his comics, for chrissake. Going by time in the saddle, though, Scott has a good ten years on him.

It's a weird thing to consider. Still better than considering literally anything else about this situation. He thinks he can be forgiven, under the circumstances, for the fact that it takes him at least ten seconds to come to the obvious realization. “You’re not handcuffed.”

“Yeah. I kicked one of them on the way out, pulled the keys off of him while they were knocking the stuffing out of me. Plus this.” He lifts a hand to display a hard black plastic shape hidden in his palm. A taser. Scott blinks slowly at it, and Cap takes a short breath, then adds, stone-faced, “I’m sorry it wasn’t sooner.”

“It’s—” _Fine_, Scott doesn’t say. It’s definitely not fine. But it’s also not Cap’s fault.

Cap is all business, anyway. He shifts his grip on Scott’s shoulder. “Can you stand? I can get the cuffs loose, but I don’t think I can catch you if you fall.”

“Yeah,” Scott says, but it takes him a minute to actually manage it. When he does he’s swaying like a tree in a gale. Cap has to stretch on his tiptoes to reach the manacles, and it hurts like hell if his expression is anything to go by. There’s fresh bruising on his ribs. And his face, and pretty much every other part of him, for that matter. One of his fingers is bent wrong, like it’s been dislocated. Scott feels dazed and queasy, and when the manacles finally loosen he collapses to his knees anyway, retching on the concrete floor. Each heave sends a dizzying stab of pain through his temples.

Cap kneels down beside him but doesn’t touch him again. Makes sense. Under the circumstances. Scott thinks about asking things like _Did more of them fuck me after I passed out_ and _Did they do it to you, too_, but neither of those things is actually relevant at this point. He drags his pants back on, wincing. Thinks about offering them to Cap, but they’ll fall right off him in this newly skinny body. And—it’s selfish, but Scott really needs to not be naked right now. “How far to the exit?”

“We’re underground. There’s at least one flight of stairs between us and the surface.”

“Plus the guards.”

“Plus the guards,” Cap agrees. There’s a glint of ferocious humor on his narrow face all of a sudden, and Scott can suddenly see the scrappy kid from Brooklyn that he must have been before the serum made him into a legend.

Improbably, he finds himself smiling back. “Well, what are we waiting for, then?”


End file.
